They climbed up a steep ladder and pushed open a heavy iron plate. Blinding light and deafening noise flooded in.
Wu Liangchen and Song Ling'Er squinted to adjust to the light, finding themselves at the end of a narrow, damp alley.
Before them was a bizarre, dazzling world—dilapidated high-rises were draped in gaudy neon lights and holographic billboards. A spiderweb of wires tangled in the air above, and oily rainwater dripped from rusted pipes.
The air was filled with the cloying sweetness of cheap synthetic food, the pungent odor of mechanical lubricant, and the faint scent of disinfectant.
People thronged the streets, many of them bearing mechanical prosthetics, both new and old. Their eyes were either numb and lifeless or filled with wariness and hostility.
This was the sunless corner within Zhongjing: the West Ninth District slum.
Wu Liangchen led Song Ling'Er out of the alley.
